


Fallen

by yuma (yuma_writes)



Category: White Collar
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 14:23:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuma_writes/pseuds/yuma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter finds someone's touched his newspaper, but it's not his crossword puzzle he's worried about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fallen

**Author's Note:**

> A word prompt response that was sitting in my hard drive _forever_. This takes place after 2X01 "Withdrawal".

When Peter first found the article on the vandalized tombstones accidentally, he automatically looked for Neal. And by accidentally, he meant that his newspaper was no longer folded to his crossword but unfurled out with a blue folder on insurance fraud just so happened to be covering it.

Except Neal was by his own designated desk, like a kid voluntarily going to the corner. His dark head was bowed over one of the many blue folders he had inherited from Peter that morning. He looked up, years of cat and mouse with everyone having honed that sense of being watched. Neal blinked and swiveled his head across and up to Peter's office in a baffled "What?"

Peter wasn't fooled. He rose from his seat, watching Neal's "What?" morph into a finger pointed inward in an appropriate (ergo suspicious) "Who me?" gesture that might have sent June and El running to console him (or bake him cookies). 

That, however, only got the back of Peter's neck prickling.

"Oh, you're back."

It took a second to register the voice as Peter was priming himself to do a finger point at Neal with as much of Hughes's authoritative command as he could mimic. Peter hesitated, broke his gaze from across the bullpen to stare blankly at Jones. Or part of Jones. Only half of him was visible as he leaned into the doorway.

Jones lifted up a rolled up newspaper. "Sorry, here's your sports section back."

One blink at the newspaper, another at the other half on his desk, and Peter said rather stupidly, "You touched my newspaper?"

Apparently, Neal hadn't been kidding when he had said everybody here knew not to touch his crossword because Jones remained where he was, shielded by a very solid piece of federal property. 

"I didn't touch your crossword," Jones said hastily, like a perp sweating in Interrogation. He only edged into full view after Peter's wave at him, acquitting him of all charges. 

"Just wanted to see how the Knicks were doing," Jones went on as he reunited the two halves, tucking the sports section back into Peter's paper.

Peter grimaced. "And you need to read a paper to know?"

Chortling, Jones shook his head. "Nah, but wanted to read the editorials to see who they blamed for yesterday's game."

"You mean slaughter," Peter corrected him. Fourteen years and he still watched every game, a glutton for punishment. He smiled ruefully at himself as he refolded his now whole newspaper; he hadn't realized there were sections missing.

"We were betting to see who was going to be blamed," Jones raised both his hands at Peter's look. "No money. Just lunch."

Peter sat down, moved the crossword off to his elbow. "So who won?" At Jones' toothy grin, Peter snorted. "Of course."

Jones backed away, grinning like the victorious. "Anyway, sorry. We needed to check but it wasn't online." As he exited, Peter nearly missed what Jones added. "Luckily, Neal mentioned you read that paper. But since you were in a meeting with Hughes, he got it for us."

Peter sat there a beat, pen seesawing in his hand. He checked over to Neal, but Caffrey was now suspiciously and diligently poring through blue folders, the stack noticeably smaller. 

He sighed. So much for Occam's razor.

After a wary glance at his paper to see if it would bite, Peter reached for it and searched for the article again.

 

The cemetery in Cypress was a smaller sibling of the one that dominated the borders of Brooklyn and Queens. Peter had chosen it mostly because the suggestion was texted to him from an unidentifiable number. The decision of where to bury the remains was left up to him because the authorities back then had shunted a wan faced, practically mute Neal back into prison after the plane's explosion despite Peter and the Lenox Hill doctors' protests. Then Neal wouldn't emerge to see visitors, not even Peter, until a week later when Peter visited to let him know about getting his badge back. 

Staring at the decapitated stone angel lying on the ice crusted grass, Peter felt a lump in his throat. It was just a statue. El helped chose it for Neal because Peter was lost on what Neal might have wanted for her (he had wanted many things for her but none of that applied here). El was better at these things; the gestures of "Cowboy up" and a pat on the back couldn't soothe. 

But now, seeing that carved serene figure broken along with the rest of the rows of solemnly carved epitaphs was...Peter shook his head. He didn't know what was worse: the sick, senseless violation of hallowed ground or the sight of Neal kneeling by the foot of a now unmarked grave.

"You could have just told me this was Kate's grave," Peter told the slumped back gruffly. He felt his chest clench. He should have realized the moment he read the article.

"It was outside my radius," Neal murmured absently, like he was telling Peter, Oh yeah, it's going to rain tomorrow.

Peter glanced around him. "I spoke with local PD. They think it's the same gang of vandals who was up in Whitestone. Kids." Stupid kids. Peter tucked his hands into his trench. "They have video of them from the bank across the street."

"Oh," Neal said dully. He rubbed the yellowed grass that ran the border of the plot with two fingers. "I never thanked you for doing this for her."

Peter shifted from foot to foot. "It's all right." There were still a lot of things about Kate they never talked about. Kate was the vague spot on Neal's map; the "Here be dragons" territories found in old exploration maps.

"This..." Neal audibly swallowed. "This isn't what I imagined for Kate." He glanced over his shoulder up at Peter. "I don't mean the..."

"I know." Peter and El had gone to her service: a quiet half hour watching a coffin being slowly covered with dirt. In all of Kate's life, the people she knew, the people who tried to love her, to see it reduced to just the priest, the groundskeeper, him and El, possibly Mozzie (he wasn't there, but there was a bouquet of white lilies on an empty chair) was disquieting to see. Neal never asked back then and Peter had been so damn grateful to let it go unmentioned. 

Neal rose to stand and shuffled over to the shattered statue. The words "You were loved" that El had chosen for the base's carvings were reduced to shards of rock. Neal lowered himself to the grass again, his fingers reaching out to trace the K, T, and E on the cracked tombstone besides the concrete corpse. 

Then, Neal began to try to lift the three foot slab with his bare hands.

"Neal." Peter reached him in two steps. He grabbed Neal by the shoulder when he saw the streaks of blood on the stone far too heavy for one man to lift. Neal violently shrugged his hand away. "Neal, come on, you can't lift that."

Neal stopped. He pulled his hands away and sat on his heels.

"Oh," Neal said in a small voice. "It's still a crime scene?" He looked down at his fingers.

Peter wanted to say yes and pull Neal away, but his stomach churned at the sight of Neal staring at his bloody fingertips. So instead, he only murmured, "No, it's not a crime scene anymore, Neal."

"Oh."

Peter crouched down but he couldn't see Neal's face, turtled into the collars of his wool coat. "Groundskeeper said they would be here tomorrow and get all of it repaired." Or replaced, he thought, making a note to himself to call the original mason later. 

"We never..." Neal rubbed his right index and thumb together. Trickles of blood disappeared into his sleeve. "She dreamt of palaces, the beach, sipping champagne, but never about...We were going to be king and queen of our lives. How did she go from that to..." Neal's head dropped lower. He sniffed loudly.

"Let me see your hands," Peter said softly. He tugged at Neal's wrists, pulling the hands towards him. He sighed at the sight. "You're a mess," he chided to the top of Neal's head, "but I don't think you need stitches." He pulled out some tissue and pressed it over one cut that still bled red tears down Neal’s palm, his wrist and into his sleeve. "Come on."

"Where are we going?" Neal stood with Peter anyway, one hand dutifully clamped over the tissue wrapped around his fingers. His stride stuttered a foot away from Kate's grave. He twisted around to gaze at it.

"They're going to fix it," Peter promised. He tugged at Neal's elbow to steer him away from Neal's Jezebel. How far she had fallen was going to haunt Neal forever. Peter found himself prodding harder, steering Neal away before Kate pulled him down with her.

Neal shook his head but sluggishly followed. His words were almost lost in the wind. "You can't fix this."

Peter nudged Neal into his car. He said nothing as he made sure the tissue was still wrapped in place. He would make sure that Neal let El fuss over him tonight, feed him the quiche Peter had smelled leaving for work this morning. Peter was then going to text Mozzie to come over with one of Neal's overpriced wines. They were going to drink that, not talk about Kate, not talk about anything, and watch over Neal to make sure he didn't dream of shattered angels and empty palaces.

Peter checked over Neal as he started the engine. He fired off a quick text, _No, not a good idea to come over tonight. Maybe tomorrow,_ replying to Jones and Diane's concerned message.

The car's purr deepened when Peter turned up the heat a degree and watched Neal blink sleepily out the windshield. He heard a sniff but when he looked over, Neal was pretending to be asleep so he just snagged the car blanket that fell to the floor. He tossed it awkwardly over Neal with one hand. He pretended to be studying his gas gauge and not noticing the start Neal made.

"...thanks, Peter..."

Peter acknowledged it with an awkward pat on Neal's knee. When Neal's head slumped back into the passenger window, Peter pulled away carefully, keeping his GPS mute.

Neal might think it couldn’t be fixed, but Peter was pretty damn sure everybody was going to try.

He steered for El and home.

**Author's Note:**

> Much gratitude to sinfulslasher for her beta. Otherwise, this would never see the light. Thank you!  
> \-------------------------  
> PS: Feedback is like cookies. I _like_ cookies! LOL.


End file.
